and say how he was too tall for her or too forward or too silly or something, and the more casually she treated him, the more he hung around. She was pleased, though. We could tell.
Elizabeth’s the Young Advocate for her church’s missionary fund, whatever that is; I went over to her houseone day after school and helped address envelopes to all the young people in her church, asking them to pledge something each month to the missionary fund. But just when we’d think she only cared about serious stuff, she’d do something different with her hair, or go to the mall with us to meet Justin—by accident, of course. Then she’d walk around with him, looking gorgeous. There are times she’s not as nutty as I think. Times I start to believe that with all her hang-ups, she’s going to be at the starting gate long before Pamela and I show up.
At home, I concentrated on getting back on good terms with my dad. I had the table set each night when he came home, whether it was my night to cook or not; I made sure I kept my stuff picked up and not strewn all over the living room, and when I got back from school on Thursday and realized that every pair of jeans I owned was dirty, I put them all in the washing machine and added the clothes in the hamper, just to save Dad and Lester some work.
Mistake. Lester had a new red sweatshirt in the wash, and when I opened the lid of the machine, everything that was white before was now pink, including Dad’s undershirts, shorts, some pillowcases, and a white linen shirt of Lester’s.
I stared down at the clothes. How could this happen?How could I continue to do one stupid thing after another? I went straight to the phone and called Aunt Sally in Chicago.
“Oh, my goodness!” she said when I explained the problem. “I can’t believe I let you get to eighth grade without teaching you how to sort the wash.”
No matter what happens, see, Aunt Sally figures it’s her fault. I could lose my life skydiving, and Aunt Sally would say it was her fault for not giving me lessons.
“Listen, dear,” she told me, “here’s a little poem that helps. My grandmother taught it to me, and if you recite it every wash day, you’ll know exactly what to do:
If it’s white, and red it’s not,
Make the water doubly hot.
If the clothes are bright and bold,
Keep the water rather cold.
Never mix your white and blue
If you’d keep your colors true.
If your whites are stained, then reach
For a jug of chlorine bleach.”
The silence over the line was awesome.
“But what do I do now?” I whimpered finally. “I’ve already ruined a whole batch.”
Aunt Sally explained how I should fill the washer again with cold water, a little detergent, and a cup of Clorox, put all the white stuff back in, and soak them for an hour.
“Whatever you do, Alice, don’t put them in the dryer,” she said. “Keep changing the water and soaking them in bleach until all the pink comes out. Once you put a stain in the dryer, it’s set for life.”
I didn’t think I could stand it. There were unpardonable sins all over the place! Everywhere I looked there were mistakes that could not be undone. And this, of course, happened to be the night that Lester wanted to wear his white linen shirt. But after I soaked all the pinks in chlorine bleach, the only one that stayed pink was Lester’s shirt.
“Has anyone seen my white linen shirt?” he asked. “Marilyn and I are going to a concert, and we wanted to stop by a club afterward.”
I took a deep breath. “Lester,” I said, “there was an accident.”
“An accident,” he repeated, staring at me. “Someone broke their arm and you used my shirt for a sling?”
“Well, worse than that. Unless, of course, you want a pink shirt. Now if you want a pink shirt, then it looks great!”
“Someone was bleeding to death and you used my shirt for a tourniquet?” he croaked.
“A washing machine accident, I mean,” I said miserably. “I was t-trying